


Perfect and Porcelain

by Marquis_de_LargeBaguette



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Sherlock (TV), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Established Relationship, Everyone but Moriarty is suffering, Human Doll, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Q is a Holmes, also a bit of foreshadowing, guess what it is because its pretty obvious, i think, in Greek, on some mythical story, or not i dont know
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-09
Updated: 2017-05-09
Packaged: 2018-10-29 18:43:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10859844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marquis_de_LargeBaguette/pseuds/Marquis_de_LargeBaguette
Summary: Jim Moriarty is living in his own fantasy world, where Sherrinford Holmes is his doll. Unfortunately for Sherrinford, it isn't just fantasy anymore. It's all reality. Where his mouth is stitched into a smile, simply because Moriarty loved it so much. It's a hell he can't crawl out of. Or can he?





	Perfect and Porcelain

**Author's Note:**

> When you're still in denial of the fact that Sherrinford isn't an actual person. Whoops.

_Drip._

_Drip._

_Drip._

Ebony green eyes dart for the source of the water droplets. It’s an instinct, a need, a gleam of hope that he yearns for so dearly, and waits for so patiently, but yields lack of at the end of the day. There are no more effort in his muscles to flinch, twitch, or jerk away at all, as a gentle hand is laid upon his cheek. It purposely avoids the black silky threads that were so skillfully and delicately stitched onto the edge of his mouth. It pulled his lips up into a gentle smile. The man was so fond of elegant things that would compliment a pale complexion. Even little things. A smile. The hand glides down to narrow chin, and just barely tilts the head up. Green eyes meet his dark ones. There is a saddened expression upon the doll of his. Everyday, it’s the same, but it’s to preserve the beauty that will soon turn feeble as time goes on.

“Chin up, my love,” he says in a benevolent whisper. Another hand of his reaches up to sweep away a curly hair of the doll, proceeding to press a placid kiss to the forehead. “Sherrinford, darling, can you stand?” He named his fragile doll Sherrinford. Well; he didn’t name him. He wishes he did, but Sherrinford is just as a lovely name as anything else he has ever heard. A mother has excellent opinions on names. He doesn’t remember the last time he visited to thank the parents for such a marvellous gift to the world. To him, most specifically. The man helps Sherrinford to stand on his feet. He can’t help but admire the frilly white dress, entirely tailored just for him, with two pastel pink bows on the front of his chest, and a tied corset at the back. He finds that it defines every part of his body. From the shape of his torso all the way down to his waist. His legs are awfully lacking meat, but lithe at the same time. Heels to make his look more proper. People have always said beauty is pain, and they couldn’t be more right.

The frail figure trembles to stand, but arms catch him from stumbling over. He has never gotten use to walking in heels, simply because they were never meant to be walked in at all. He is a display, to be looked at during fancy parties. He is Moriarty’s lover, and delicate toy to handle. He had no say in all of this. In fact, he took the arms of the devil in the dark, and dove right in with closed eyes. He can’t ever remember a time anymore where it was all normal. He use to laugh at the word normal, but now he truly knows what it means. To return where this is no more pain, to where it was just simple love. He recalls a moment where it was just him and his lover in bed. They were talking quietly to each other as the night shone of stars in the sky. One night, Moriarty said to him; “Have I ever told you how beautiful you are?” Sherrinford would usually smile. He has told him plenty of times. It was enough to last him a lifetime of self-esteem, and it was like he made it a goal to remind him everyday. It worked, but he was humble. He didn’t think the way the criminal did. He didn’t think he was ever beautiful or worth the entire world. In truth, he thought of himself as a classic nobody. He didn’t ever go out to fancy dinners, or made himself known to the world like his brothers did. He hid in his flat, and worked behind a computer. It could’ve stayed that way for the rest of his life.

_It could’ve. But it didn’t. And that’s what hurt him the most._

Sherrinford was rarely brought outside. It was for preservation purposes, as Moriarty puts it. He is only ever often standing beside him during his meetings. Criminals of his own kind, just dafter. Time let him observe that Moriarty liked to keep his hand on his waist, and the other hand in his pocket. He kept his gun in that pocket, and there are no doubts that he will pull it out at anyone despite the situation if one filthy hand is laid upon such smooth skin. He would be lying if he were to say he hasn’t seen it happen before. It wasn’t a threat to him, but a chill still made its way up his spine. He got defensive over his property. A little too defensive.

He had gotten so far into his thoughts, he wasn’t aware he had been moved to another room. The dining hall. Nobody could mistaken the dining hall from anywhere else. Hung up on the ceiling was a shimmering glass chandelier. It was used to light up romantic dinner nights. Sitting silently across the room with a large table of meals for an entire empire to feast upon. But those are only special nights. To be fair, Sherrinford always considered _special nights_ to be when Moriarty isn’t wearing a Westwood suit. Maybe special is an understatement to describe it. Now all it remains is a darkened dining hall with an eerie atmosphere, where memories were left so abruptly untouched, and no exchanges of _I love you_ come from two different voices anymore. Just one. One voice to say the three words, one voice to supply them both a life time of it. The criminal lives in his own fantasy. It’s nearly a pitiful sight to see, once you’ve seen it for long enough.

_Nearly. Barely. Hardly._

“Ice man texted me today,” Moriarty brought up out of the blue. From across the table, Sherrinford could see him waving his brightly lit phone. Ice man was referred to as Mycroft. His older brother, who practically ran the government. . . or something like that. He got in contact with Moriarty after witnessing the state that the younger one is in right now. He may just be the only Holmes who knows. He knows everything. He knows all the secrets, and he keeps all the secrets. Despite his efforts of putting Moriarty in Sherrinford Institute, it never worked. It felt like betrayal. Mycroft never did anything to interfere after that. It was like he just pushed his younger brother to hell and left him there to rot in eternal silence. Hell has been his home ever since, with Moriarty. The devil dressed in Westwood who overthrew Hades a long time ago to sit on his tarnished throne, then made one for the Queen. Sherrinford.

“Said he wanted to see you.” He turned the phone screen back to him. His dark eyes shifted as he read through the text once again, then flickered back to his doll. There’s a silence that both of them indulged themselves in. Mycroft wants to see Sherrinford. Wants to _shake hands with him in hell_. That’s almost too considerate to be the older and more intelligent Holmes. “He says he pities you, you know. I don’t see what he has to pity about over you. You’re completely fine.”

If only Sherrinford could open his mouth and laugh at his fantasy-driven, psychopathic _boyfriend_. He was anything but fine. _Fine_ is a word he would use to express how much deep sorrows he’s drowned himself in. _Fine_ is a vague enough word to keep people thinking you’re still stable, but there’s still just a piece of them left wondering if it really is fine.

Don’t pity him.

“Oh well,” Moriarty’s pitch got increasingly higher, as he sauntered over to Sherrinford. “What do you think? Should we let him over?” He sat on the edge of the table, right in front of the Holmes who continued to look straight ahead at absolutely nothing. Still, gentle fingers brush away at his curls, and stroke his cheek until his head tilted up to meet the consulting criminal’s eyes. There was a twisted smile that danced on his lips. Only trouble comes from that smile. It was the kind of trouble Sherrinford use to like, now all dwindled down to abhorrence. He doesn’t have a say. As all little kids alike, they like to talk for themselves, and their dolls. “You’re right,” he drawled. “He’d probably try to kidnap you. Fix you. You don’t need fixing. You’re a perfect little doll, just for me.” Another placid kiss, but this time to the cheek. He always avoids the stitches, as if he’s afraid of touching them the wrong way. He isn’t that fragile. Not when he started out the relationship. He’s been carved out to his ideas. He’s completely under his control, with the kingdom locked up and nowhere to run. Moriarty gently lifts him up from his seat, and that’s when he’s really out of his little trance. He knows where they’re going next. Their garden, of vibrant green grass and flowers of different types and colours. It’s the most joy he’ll ever get from living with the devil. The freedom spring has to blossom anywhere.

It makes him feel a little bit melancholy.


End file.
